


Storytelling

by LittleRaven



Category: Where the Wild Things Are - Maurice Sendak
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, narrator - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/pseuds/LittleRaven
Summary: Yes, the Wild Things understand.





	Storytelling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isabear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabear/gifts).

There are a great many things children are told, and have been told since olden days. Children know them all, even before the first time they actually hear them; they must remember, just as they remember to grow up, shooting high above where they started, without meaning to or being able to think how they did it. A child hears “Wild Thing” and all of a sudden, with a cold chill stopping their heated blood, knows where they belong.

It is no surprise to see the grass grow under their feet, softer than any carpet and smelling a good deal sweeter. It is no surprise to see the boat just their size, with their name in the wood. It is no surprise to sail away. 

What they leave behind does not exist, not yet. For the child only knows what is happening. They live as the Wild Things. Later, they remember the hunger, and what it was like to have it sated, and so the Wild Things are left behind. 

The Wild Things remember. They have adopted many kings, countless numbers of them; by the time every name was listed, they would have had twice that amount already. It is quite hopeless to try to find out, but they remember every one. More importantly, they remember how it goes. They are always left hungry. 

They are always hungry. This is a thing children are not told, save by the Wild Things themselves, when they are being left. They could very well know it anyway before that, as they do with all the other things they do get told about. 

The Wild Things are hungry, and wild, and they wait every day for a child who can share their terrible hunger, who can be wild with them; they need no supper if they are fed the joy of this sharing. If the child is not wild enough to tame them, they feast another way, and that is enough for them too. 

But often they are, because all children are born wild, and it is very difficult to get them out of the habit. So they come, and they rule, and they remain wild for a time. It is hard on the Wild Things to see them go, This is when they get the hungriest of all. They have become so tame they cannot bear having to fend for themselves again, waiting for the next child, the next boat over the horizon. If only, they must think, the child would stay, terrified and humbled! Alas, that a king cannot be made to do the will of the subjects, who must bear with what they’re told. Why, the children can be just as bad as the parents who sent them to live with the Wild Things. 

The Wild Things have knowledge of their own, just like the children. Not only what all wildness tells you when you sleep before you’re born, or when you dream, but what they learn. Children love being told stories, and telling them in turn. They love being listened to, and the Wild Things love the listening. Their eyes roll especially well then, and their teeth shine dully when they gape, with their claws waving in the air at every exciting moment worth waving claws at. It is as much a part of their meal as the company during the rumpus. 

Yes, the Wild Things understand. They know what it’s like to need to live on an island far away, because they must be wild and it is the only place left for them. That is why they love the children, and make them their kings. It gets so very dull, having to be alone to be yourself, and never to know anything new unless someone comes to tell you about it. Their hearts ache, and they must gnash their teeth harder than ever when they are left, every time. You would cry to see it, I am sure, though of course you never would be able to see it, because you would already be gone. Whether your tears would be because you were very sad, or very afraid, I do not know. Perhaps it is best that you never see them. It is very hard to look someone in the eye when you are crying, and even harder to look at more than one person. There could be no way to be sure this wouldn’t make the Wild Things not tame again. And then you wouldn’t be here, listening to me telling you about them. 

They like being listened to too, you know. It doesn’t happen quite as often. Children can be very good listeners, all of them, when they want to be—but of course they only go to where the Wild Things are if they haven’t been listening to anybody, except for their own wild selves. Kings aren’t known for listening, but for being listened to; otherwise they wouldn’t make very good kings. 

I listened when they looked me in my eyes, all of them. They didn’t make me their king. I stood very still, and very silent, and I let them look at me very hard, without blinking, or saying a word. A Wild Thing cannot help filling the quiet, but I was not used to being a Wild Thing. I very much did not want to be called one. But the grass was soft and sweet, and I was alone, and the world was so big on the horizon. The boat had my name, and you know, just as well as anyone does, that it is much nicer to be called by name than to be called anything else, at least most of the time. It is no surprise that I sailed in it. I went, and I heard stories, and when I left I looked back at them until I could not see their big eyes with their big tears, hear their loud roars. 

And so I am telling you this, and I see that you have listened well enough to all of it. I hope that if ever you are called wild, and you know what to do, you will remember and tell it all to them, who keep us all in their hearts, if not in their island.


End file.
